GRAVE DIGGER Part
II
©Johny Appalachia
It is difficult for me to address my past. Some people call me autistic; most of them
are dead or seriously stocked. Mom hated
psychiatrist. She said they were the
devils brew – mostly sordid perverts hanging at police stations, waiting for prey.
I had serious hearing problems, thrown from a building at an
early age. When she said pray, I thought
she meant prey. It was a
misunderstanding. I was always making
mistakes. Everything I did was wrong
somehow. I just got used to it, learned
to live with it, and studied perpetual revenge.
I grabbed my knife and bow, to spend the week spear fishing.
Everybody looks good in a suit; I never had the luxury. But the guy next door had a huge
wardrobe. I used to visit his home, a
half mile away to play with his toys until his mother kicked me out. She gave me a new name, Truculent. I liked her because I thought it meant truck
and referring to her build, like a big Mack, with a bulldog face, stout body
and rugged figure.
School was something I looked forward to. Big sister was eight years older, a kind
benevolent soul and great cook. I begged
her to teach me to read. She was
destined to teach. I was only four when
already learning abc’s. We were
diminutive. I wanted to play school, so
I borrowed baby sister from the crib, while mother slept. We stuck her in the chair while I sat on the
floor with crossed legs, to concentrate.
It wasn’t too hard.
It took a few weeks and that was all.
Sister helped me with suggestive thinking. I learned, “A,B,C.”; next, DEF. I’ll always remember that – she said, “that’s
what you are Johny.”; however, she was a kind woman and meant no harm to
anybody.
Big sister was my real-life hero and she watched over me,
coached me across the road in traffic – that was a scary day while the bus was
coming and we had to be at school on time.
Sister, was sitting beside me and whispered in my ear, “It’s going to be
a hard life Johny and you won’t live forever; make the best of it.”
School was a nightmare, reticent of years ago. There was something mesmerizing about the
odor in the atmosphere, which led me out of class and down into the
basement. I spent most of that day
there.
I was living in a bubble; that is the only way I can
describe my feelings. Most people just
called me Loony. It was OK, because too
many people said it. I would have to
burn an entire classroom to get even.
That is cold calculation, like math.
Math is something I do not understand. It’s boring and concentrated. It takes time to write down and cipher
figures.
My daddy was a cipher.
He balanced books to the penny and made pennies doing it. I used to help him at night, because there
was nothing else to do. He gave me a
penny once and I hid it in a corner under the bed. It was easy.
The floor was made of dirt. I was
sleeping in the far corner of our basement. Perhaps that is why I was drawn to basements
and spelunking catacombs.
People avoid basements for some reason, not I. One could spend an entire lifetime spelunking
among catacombs’ tunnels, the bodies laid out in various stages of
decomposition, mostly beyond stench and just settling into dank and musty.
Age process is amazing.
Fresh corpses, maybe dead only a year or so; withered in a cacophony of
shapes stretching over bone. Fingers and
facial expressions amazed me. I could
let my eyes lust over them for hours ; facial expressions of greeting or
eluding death, the fingers always resting upon each other with the same rosaries laced over their
hands; and further down the Hallway of Sisters,
flesh turned leathery, ashen in assorted forms of decomposing to
complete skeletal order, a biological study of death.
When I finally found my way out of the basement,
unfortunately, they caught me as I was stepping back into classroom; however,
the punishment was suitable and served as an accessory – they stuck me the
hallway until after school. I missed the
bus and walked home.
As I walked by my neighbor’s home, his mother smiled at me,
acting friendly. I thought she was a
nice lady and looked sharp, well dressed.
They were stepping from the car.
He rode in the back seat, looking graceful in his suit. They had driven by me while I was walking
home, never stopping, never offering; I did not deserve a ride. I walked home in time to teach baby sister
her diminutive abc’s.
School was a drag; however, you need to get through some things
in order for progression. I was a
chosen gang leader, age six. That was
not my choice. It was my calling. They put me at the front of the line and
started pushing my back and poking my kidneys.
Then, guys in front affronted with the same treatment. I was surrounded. Vexed.
I turned around and started pounding my way out, kicking chestnuts along
the way. They dropped like flies and I
decided it was good.
Some things, you are born with, and others acquired. I was short for my age and some kids said I
was a demented dwarf – most died. By the
time I was in sixth grade, I was leading a gang of extortionist, not even my
forte. The execution was by their
hand. We were divided groups with
boundary zones. I hated gangs. I hated everybody. I hated myself. Perhaps my greatest enemy was I. I threw a rope around an apple tree, while
the other end was on my neck, and jumped.
When you die, it is the essence of darkness come to light
where no emotion is spared by each of those who morn; and most of all, the
mourner mourned. Wander into rooms long
neglected in total darkness, the essence of forever even as it passes you will
drift beyond and within another realm of
inner conscience; perhaps a review of lives past, such as the Spartan
(another story).
I felt myself falling, head hitting hard against the
tree. My limbs tingled and I passed
out. It was interesting. When I opened my eyes to feast upon a virgin,
she held my hand in hers, while addressing my wound with her other. They were carrying me on a stretcher, my
neck would not move.
I was short, and my life short lived.
I must have died 100 times that year, in my mind while I was
laid up with nowhere to go and no friends.
You cannot feel sorry for yourself, when you are always beating
everybody up. More sadly, it is the only
thing you know, and your vocabulary consist of less than six-hundred words; you
cannot waist them. Instead, you carry a
short wick of perpetual flame, the flame of fear and revenge. My gang days were over and I was heading for
commerce while my life spiraled downhill like a shot of fine smooth bourbon
posed for the demise.
I did the logical thing and quit school to live in the woods
at a place called Jack-knife hill. An
ancient weathered log cabin set there along the edge of time awaited my body on
a bed of straw upon the floor. A bucking
saw was set up, hanging on a mantle hook beside the fireplace. I was
a rich teen living in the woods at an abandoned cabin besides the nation’s
finest fishing, free. Fresh air, fishing
and bucking wood must have helped me. I
felt invigorated and ready to move on with my life.
One day I met the High School principal who happened to be
fishing along my creek. It was a tense
moment as I pondered events past; however, short lived. He greeted me with a grim smile and I knew
that he knew that everything could end quickly, my Bowieknife slightly resting
the tip into a wooden log, within arm reach.
He came with a message.
“I looked at your records.
You were A student material, and your grades were average or above. Test records show you took advanced tests,
lowering grade averages. You never
turned any homework in. I am not asking
you to return to school. Instead, I
promise you that if you do, I’ll do everything in my power to insure you a
smooth path. You deserve to graduate,
young man.”
Some people graduate with honors. I felt honored to graduate. Mom and Dad greeted me, and gifted me my only
suite and a new pair of dress shoes. It
was an emotional moment for everybody; and then I left.
Mountains have always mystified folk, not me. I was born there and my family for
generations. There is no claiming
anything except fact; we are each a speck of sand being carried upon our
mother’s back. I guess somehow,
everybody is related. The only country I
know is the one I was born with in the mountain village, miles from
everybody. Sometimes we need to leave
behind all that we love in pursuit of something more important to the inner being. You capture in your mind’s eye, mountain
beauty in your soul.
They call me a lone wolf, some who lived to tell; most met
tragedy at young ages. In truth we are
never alone, and I never felt that way; being more at home in wilderness than
city; nevertheless, I left my gun at home while leaving our mountain view and
trading freedom for the bowery.
In the country, you are never alone. Birds and other creatures track your moments
to warn others, while other creatures, perhaps squirrels may trail you knowing
safety.
Cities are mostly devoid of animals. Animal residents are hostile, defensive
packrats. There is always somebody
stalking prey; corpses left in dumpsters or wherever they get dumped. Teen upon teen and add infinity that
escalates everything into extinction, I just observed, preferring to make no waves.
I needed a job and devised my plan. I guess everything is digavu. Perhaps we are programmed to follow our
destinies of distinction, extinction.
There was a thousand dollar loan to repay. I went to the banker requesting a job. She stared at me hard while making a call to
the caecilian king. Fate often plays a
heavy hand on life. When she hung up,
she scribbled a number that only said, call.
When it comes to work, I am a man of business; always hungry
and needing a job. It took Misiu, my dog
and me about twenty minutes to drive from Chicago to Cicero. Just outside town, you take a left on the
only dirt road in Cicero; drive about six-hundred feet (maybe two football
fields), and a yard on the left signaled with an open gate.
Sometimes courtesy eludes us. As I pulled into the driveway, tons and rows
of trailers lined the way at the far section of the lot. Several trucks parked beside a long dock.
An ashen faced guard greeted me; looking frantically at the
commotion before us. Perhaps he had good
reason. It appeared that a person was
taking a blow to the arm, from a tire iron, wielded by a powerful man, while
two centuries stood idly by. Another
great man looked on from dock’s end, forcing an apparently unwanted jump. She broke her ankle as she fell, but that was
not all.
They barely made it into the parked auto and that was not
enough. His anger escalated to
oscillating rage; picking up a pipe iron, which was laid along the dock,
perhaps an oversight; he preceded momentum, striking on the vehicle roof and
smashing the rear windshield of the fleeing couple.
Silence followed; then a loud explosion.
Some days you know to be difficult. I reached across the seat and petted my big
dog. His fur bristled and he was
emitting a low decibel growl. To insure safety,
instinctively I reached toward my Bowie, making sure it was properly placed and
the sheath unlatched. The only thing
covering that sharpness was the hilt of my boot and blue jean flairs. We only dress for a reason. Both of us were hungry and might not have
food for a week.
Hunger and greed produce slaves of green. I can only speak for myself. We were of
simple means, the dog and me, living daily depending on combining our
wits. On the low scales of poverty,
simplicity dictates ones movements.
There is no right or wrong answer to infinity; rather, galactic inertia
predicts outcomes.
If I had a choice, it would be dinner over dinnertime
driving. Drivers are encouraged to drive
without lunches. I always thought of
trucking as the working person’s prostitution.
You do it because you have
to. Sometimes it is enjoyable. Mostly it is just a job.
Shortly I looked into the cold steel eyes of a man who had
just murdered his daughter. He slammed
the pipe upon concrete, the loading dock base platform, and it bounced to smack
him on the forehead hard enough for a welt to rise. He looked dazed and staggered backwards,
reaching for his enlarged temple, grasped a step railing for balance, while
sitting on the stairwell, and changed his mood.
Wearing my best poker face, I handed him the paper
slip.
Hunger taints the mind decisions. We were both numb from that experience. I reached for his hand to help him up and he
turned into a lamb. A cherubic smile
graced his face and he welcomed me into the fold, four drivers and he. On any other day, I would have walked away,
but there were bills to pay. He said, “Lacey,
show him the beast.”
I guess when you are truculent, you drive a truck; however,
the man I called, “Boss” had another name for me, Abrasive. Where vocabulary begins, my words often
end. We crossed the thresholds of ABC’s
and graduate, having little more than a pittance for the life journey we carry
upon our shoulders. The mountain
solitude away from groups of people more than three, remain forever where they
stay with family and far away friends. Beauty
brings about boldness that poverty exacerbates.
That beast, was Grave Digger. It was wreaking odors of fuel oil, road dirt
and crud, badly in need of a bath. A bucket
was set just inside the dock bay door and instinctively I collected that and
some soap. The demographics of life can
change at a heartbeat, life changes so fast.
Food and lust contribute; none of them last.
A bucket of water and some soap will go a long way to
cleaning a truck, dog and man. I soaped
and scrubbed each of us, cloths and everything you could put water on. Misiu, my only friend delighted himself,
sprinting back and forth to shower at the hose water cascading off the truck side.
There was lots of blood to clean that day; perhaps a score
to settle, a debt to pay. In retrospect,
maybe I should have walked away that afternoon, instead of choosing to stay. The giant truck lured me. It demanded work from me.
I worked an entire day and into twilight. The truck was shining deeply against sunset,
barely noticeable amongst shadows cast from a dearth of trees and impregnation
of high rises. There is something
softening about evening when you spit your last saliva of the day to shine a
waxy truck. The sparkle in the shine
reaches deep for everyone to read, paint versus reflections; what a way to let
a mind wander.
It was reaching into twilight and, Boss came to me with an
envelope anchored to a clipboard. He
said, “I’ll give you twenty-five percent, and thanks again.”
Misiu, my trusted friend was lying behind the rear tandem tires
and I distinctively caught a low growl, lending perhaps a bad start to our commercial
relationship. In the back of my mind I realized
the situation needed addressing, and carefully ordered the dog into his new
truck bed sleeper. It seemed to agree
with him as he lay watching, emitting low decibels. Perhaps the smell of blood had confiscated
his olfactory senses. One does not
question logic in a dog.
He walked over to where he kept parked his Cadillac, bright
shiny midnight black and sparkling chrome trim, set his self within and
left. Boss had made his mark. They say the first five seconds of appearance
influences are lasting. Last thing he
said to me, “Get yourself something to eat.”
